


optimism is naïve on the best of days; distressful on the worst

by UncrownedKing



Series: chivalry [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Crying, Disassociation, Flower Crowns, Gen, Kinda Child Abuse?, Self-Esteem, Self-Hatred, Sobbing, Swearing/cursing, The Child - Freeform, The Dragon - Freeform, The Prince - Freeform, Threats of Violence, if you're a child stan then definitely watch out, the Thief - Freeform, the child gets roughed around a lil', the other two are just mentioned tho, the prince has been through a lot and its been less than a day, those two are loosely related, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing
Summary: warnings are in the tags!!!super duper part of chivalry is dead au  — if you haven't read that, i dont think this'll make sense!! and in timeline, this occurs before the main story, but on the day of the split!!The Prince is an interesting character because what is Roman, if you take all of the Roman out of him?





	optimism is naïve on the best of days; distressful on the worst

The Prince ran his hand through the Child’s hair again. His breathing was ragged, hitching in the old sobs and getting caught consistently. Foolish that he considered himself an actor; he couldn’t even keep up appearances in front of himself. 

Running from the Dragon was difficult enough, but it looked like he hadn’t pursued. Roman was — no, no, the Prince was tired. He wasn’t Roman anymore, wasn’t Creativity or Ego or whatever else he was meant to represent. When the split happened, when all seven of them stood in a circle, staring at reflections of their greed, anguish, and desires, the Prince was very afraid. It hurt almost as much as the last time, maybe more; he hoped this wouldn’t be so permanent. Of course an argument broke out. The one with horns took control, threatening them all. Threatening him. 

It made sense that all of his anger and craving of validation would ball into one tortured individual figment. Why did he agree to this? Not he, not the Prince, but Roman. Perhaps it was better to use the royal We in this situation.

Was it even okay to call it the royal We? He was the only one who upheld this pseudo royal persona. Ridiculous. 

If all of the other facets of himself had fled, then what was left?

The Prince didn’t want to consider that. He looked up at the expanse of open air. Roman had selected this setting subconsciously, as a fall back. It was the first daydream they’d ever had, back when they were young and dreamt of growing into an honorable king. The lake was large, surrounded with thick forests and patches of open grassy areas. Reeds populated the waterfront area and every so often, a few woodland creatures would poke around the area. 

After the Dragon began getting violent, all of them scattered. The Prince picked up the Child and ran, desperate to protect the beacon of hope, desperate to save at least the softest parts of himself — no, he reprimanded, of Roman. He’d run into the forest, though in the opposite direction of the Tree. The one with the cloak, who’d been silent through the whole debacle, he probably took refuge there. The Prince was a little worried that not all of them had escaped. What would happen if one of them died?

It wasn’t his problem. He didn’t need to protect them. He didn’t even need to protect himself, no, he could just go up to the Dragon and let himself be struck down by a much more capable facet. 

….Woah. The Prince exhaled and wiped his face with his sleeve. Where had that come from? He looked down at the Child. They’d finally rested in a glade after nearly a day of running. The world was large and centralized in one clear point, so it was unlikely that any of the other figments followed them. They were so far from the castle that the colors were bleeding into white, back into the pale seams of the Imagination.

He should probably comfort the Child. They’d been through a lot.

“You’re okay, erm, kiddo,” the Child snickered at the nickname, but didn’t look up.

The Child was taking this a lot better than the Prince, though he chalked that up to the repression. The Child was used to not being given the opportunity to speak; all the Prince ever did was speak. He was unused to being demoralized like this. 

Some Prince he was. 

“I know. I know I’m okay,” the Child’s small hands were looping flower stems around each other with an unexpected amount of expertise. “You’re not okay, Princey.”

The Prince snorted. “Of course I’m okay! I’m….”

“You’re crying.”

“....Look.”

The Child giggled again, shaking his head. “You’re not Roman anymore, Princey, it’s okay. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but I know we’re gonna put Roman back together alright, and then we’ll be a great prince again! All honor and cool, and maybe we’ll get armor or something!” 

He hoped that would be true, but the usual optimism he was capable of vanished. Instead, he could only consider bitterly that Roman might be better off without him. Why was that? Usually he was so good at putting on a brave smile and facing the challenges, but now none of his bravado arose. 

Well, he knew why. Because that optimism was sitting right in front of him. It was separate. Not a part of the Prince. He didn’t have many virtues.

If the Prince was such garbage, then did he deserve to be a prince at all?

The Prince patted his head again and stood up, but the Child grabbed his leg. “Wait, no, I’m almost done!” he smacked the Prince’s knee a few times. 

He had the Prince intrigued. He sat back down, slowly, and squinted at the thing in the Child’s hands. “What are you doing?”

“Almost!” 

Figures. The Prince rolled his eyes and looked around at the lake. 

He could drop the Child off at the Tree. He would be safe there; that figment seemed more trustworthy and more capable of protecting him. The Prince figured all of the different sides — ah, he shouldn’t say that, that just felt weird. Could a Side have sides? That was too philosophical for him to think about without Deceit.

Oh, Deceit. The others. What would they say? 

Probably something about how he’s so extra, how he’s being a drama queen. How annoying and stupid and silly he is for taking introspection so dastardly seriously. How curr! He was a menace.

Something dropped onto his head and the Prince sat up straight again. “Done!” the Child chirped, scooting around to kneel in front of him and face was split in a bright grin. “A pretty flower crown for a pretty prince!” 

The Prince reached up, feeling flower petals around his head. The Child had made him a flower crown. 

Usually he’d love the gift, he often made flower crowns with Patton when they were supposed to build nostalgic dreams, but right now the idea of a crown was off-putting. He hadn’t earned it. Didn’t deserve it.

….Ridiculous. 

His hand curled into a fist and he pulled his knees closer. 

Hearing the Child call him a prince was off putting, actually. Was he still a Prince? He didn’t really feel like it.

And he didn’t want to exchange thoughts with a fucking  _ Child _ . Someone so naïve, so stupidly optimistic.

“Prince?” he winced again. 

“Don’t call me that,” the Prince looked around at the sky, trying to guess the time. “I don’t think I’m….”

He should drop the Child off somewhere and go face the Dragon himself. 

Let whatever happens happen. Not like he wouldn’t deserve it.

“What do you mean?” the Child stood up with him.

“I’m taking you to the Tree. I must deal with some devils.”

“You’re leaving me with the Thief?!”

“The Thief?” he hadn’t heard that Roman’s name. “Is that him?”

“He looked kinda scary,” the Child mumbled. “I don’t wanna go with him.”

He leaned forward and hugged the Pr–no. God, what was his name? The Child was hugging his leg. 

“I wanna stay with you, Prince.”

That was the final straw. He pried the Child off of his leg and pushed him back with one hand. He wasn’t the fucking prince and this Child was getting on his nerves. But he needed to stay safe, protected. He didn’t understand where that instinct was coming from but he knew he had to follow it.

“Thief’ll take care of you. I can’t,” he snapped, now grabbing his wrist, “C’mon.”

“But—”

“I don’t know what I am, and you’re not gonna be able to help with that.”

The Child tried to tug himself free, but instead of freeing him, he just lifted him up, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack. He began walking back towards the town, ignoring the Child’s shouting. 

“But you! Are the Prince! Look at you! What else could you be?”

Looking at him, he was most definitely Prince Roman. White uniform, red sash, cre — okay, wait, the crest was gone. Mostly. Where the shield would be was a lone tower, outlined in gold, so desolate against the blank background.

He ignored the Child the best he could. Because in his heart, gone was the optimism, the shameless self-adoration, or even the bravery bordering on stupidity that he often displayed. A small twinge came when he thought of the other Sides; he longed for them to hold his hand, exchange words of adoration, play at their every beck and call, but alas, even that love was twisted. He couldn’t imagine them loving him — loving THIS — and if this form was the one they were facing? 

The one they’d been saddled with?

My God, and what about Thomas. Thomas deserved a better creative knight than….himself.

No, he wasn’t the Prince. The Prince was gone. He wasn’t going to swoop in or do any saving. He wasn’t even strong enough to keep himself in one piece. He wasn’t a fucking hero.

He felt much more like…

“I’m in a fair amount of distress. I’m the Damsel.”


End file.
